


Carrying the Stone

by Makalaure



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, mature themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: “I wish Master Qui-Gon was here instead of you.”





	Carrying the Stone

**Carrying the Stone**

He is standing beside Obi-Wan, who has his hands folded face hooded shoulders thrown back, and he wants to move away because the heat is too much but his feet seem fixed to the ground. Before them Qui-Gon Jinn burns on his pyre, embers rising with the smoke, and Anakin is struck with a thought,  _It will fall apart_ , which is foolish, because it’s not a vision, not even a dream.

(Anakin had not given much attention to Obi-Wan before now. He was Qui-Gon’s apprentice, another Jedi, standoffish, but not someone Anakin shrank away from.)

When Obi-Wan crouches down to say he will be Anakin’s mentor, Anakin for a brief moment wishes he were back in Mos Espa. There, at least, was the reassurance of his mother’s callused fingers, the grins of his friends, the familiarity of pottering around in Watto's shop.

But there was also the poor pushed to their knees, the sick denied medicine, the endless stretches of sand beneath a vast empty sky.

_Who will free the slaves?_

It cannot be allowed to fall apart.

Anakin decides he can tolerate Obi-Wan.

***

Their quarters boast a bed, a writing desk that doubles as a dining table, two wicker chairs, and little else. Anakin cannot understand why people with so much money would choose to live like this. Do they sit on their credits like dragons in fairy stories?

He requests to sleep on the floor - the idea of sleeping next to Obi-Wan is unsettling. "Don't worry," he says at Obi-Wan's baffled expression, "I'm used to the ground. I used to stay over at the shop sometimes." Anakin had not really minded – Watto had even given him blankets and water. But his mother got worried, which he hadn’t liked.

Obi-Wan sputters. "I - you - No!" After ordering, then haggling (which he is distressingly useless at - the Hutts would strip him of everything but his underwear, if he ever encountered them), then pleading for Anakin to share, he eventually sighs and lets Anakin take the bed, choosing to sleep on the floor himself. "We will have to order a separate cot for you," he says, passing a hand over his face.

Anakin's eyes go round. "You can just  _order_  stuff? And they deliver it to you? I thought only the Hutts could do that!" He clearly needs to recalibrate just  _how_  wealthy Core-worlders are. He imagines small hills of cots stacked on top of each other in warehouses, and whistles.

Obi-Wan stares at him like he is some rare, exotic creature. He looks like he is about to start ranting, but at length he just turns away and shrugs off his robe. Instead of lying down, like Anakin expected him to, he sits cross-legged with his back against the bed. Soon his breathing grows deep and even.

 _At least he doesn't snore_ , Anakin thinks, settling in beneath the heavy duvet. He lies in the dark and traces the shattered moonlight on the ceiling with his eyes, thinking of Qui-Gon’s easy smile and filth-stained clothes and long straight hair. When Qui-Gon had put his huge hands on Anakin’s shoulders in the Council chamber, Anakin had thought, with timid, embarrassed hope, of a father.

(For a second, just a second, he hates Obi-Wan.)

He is on the cusp of uneasy sleep when a noise disturbs him. Anakin strains to listen, and is about to close his eyes again when it reappears – a small thing, barely audible. He rolls onto his side to find Obi-Wan shifting around, as though tormented by a nightmare, little pained sounds escaping his parted lips.

Anakin reflexively presses his back against the cold wall. He is repulsed by such an open display of weakness in a Jedi (there is something safe, something sterile and clean about their perfect stoicism), but in his surprise he stumbles off the bed and jostles Obi-Wan's shoulder, just wanting it to  _stop_.

Obi-Wan’s eyes fly open and he darts for his lightsaber by his side. When he realises it is Anakin he relaxes, marginally, his chest still heaving. “Oh, Anakin,” he breathes, as if he expected someone else. Seeming dazed, he reaches up behind his ear, where his Padawan braid used to dangle till just a day ago, and his fingers grope at air.

Anakin finds that there is welling pity mingling with his distaste. Obi-Wan says nothing in his own defence, gazing at Anakin as if Anakin is an apparition. His emotions bleed into the Force, consolidating and forming what feels like  _griefshockemptiness_ , this sharp, throbbing thing.

Slowly, Obi-Wan raises a hand as though to touch Anakin’s face, but drops it when Anakin draws back. Anakin blinks and realises he is crying.

“I am deeply sorry, my Padawan,” Obi-Wan says, his voice gentler than anything Anakin has ever heard. “I had not meant to upset you.” The grief is tempered now, running like a thin underground stream, and growing thinner still.

Anakin is feeling toomuchtooquickly (so  _many_  things have changed), confusion making him dizzy. He does not want to be kind (what has his kindness got him so far? A dead Master and a still-enslaved mother), so he gets angry instead. It feels good, like he is in control of something, even though he is letting  _go_. He accuses, "You made me cry."

"I am sorry," Obi-Wan whispers, with a helpless shake of his head.

"I don't care."  _I want my mother._  Anakin’s throat closes and his eyes burn. He wants her more than he wants this ancient temple on this city-planet with its glass towers and shiny speeders, more than he wants to be a Jedi. More than he wants to free the slaves on Tatooine. He would keep them as they are if it meant he could see her, he thinks fiercely, with bitter shame.

In that moment he does not care about the chasm yawning between him and Obi-Wan. Without preamble he clambers into Obi-Wan’s lap and burrows against his chest, howling in a way he has not done in years, and Obi-Wan jerks. Obi-Wan’s heartbeat drums do-dom do-dom through his rough-spun clothes, strong and shockingly intimate.

Before sleep takes him, he feels Obi-Wan’s hand brush against his back.

***

Anakin is handed to a crechemaster, asked whether he has read the basics of Jedi literature (he has not, but Obi-Wan had lectured him on it, so he figures that’s enough), and told to be a good boy. Anakin has never been good at being a good boy. His mother had called him a  _nice_  boy, but that’s not the same thing, really.

In classes he sits among children younger than he is, and he is not quite dithering but not confident, either. He is technically a Padawan but does not even possess the knowledge of  an Initiate. The others’ stares are touched with mild curiosity or outright scorn. No one talks to him. This, he tells himself, is fine. He has the holonet and his mechanical parts and his practice saber, and they keep him company plenty.

(At night when he lies in bed he wonders what his friends are doing. Have any of them been beaten? Did anyone pick up pod-racing after his winnings?)

To his relief, he sees his new Master little. There are many missions for a fresh Knight, and Obi-Wan is gone most days – to other Core worlds, so he is not far from Anakin, but gone nonetheless. Every time he returns he sports a somewhat harried appearance, as if he expected their quarters to be turned upside down or the training salle to be on fire. Then when he finds that all is well, he sighs, runs a hand through his spiky hair, and hurries off again.

Anakin has their quarters to himself, so there he practices kata or reads up on machines (the manuals here are  _far_  more up-to-date than those in Mos Espa). He does not have to risk burning his skin by cooking for himself. The meals - all served in the mess hall - are some of the worst-tasting things Anakin has ever eaten. Still, they are filling, and he does not get hungry between them, unused as he is to regular eating habits.

Idleness, also, he is unaccustomed to; there had barely been a minute to rest in his old life, and there is something obnoxious about the luxury of not having to stay up late to do what he wants. It makes him feel dirty, and he compares himself to those hefty Hutts who have time to sit around and drink and smoke and watch women dance for their dinner.

But life at the temple turns out to be fuller and fuller. The more he learns, the more he needs to practice, and soon enough he is staggering to bed earlier than usual. As the weeks pass by he finds himself drawn to certain lightsaber forms. He delights in their frankness (a fight is a fight, no sense in pretending otherwise), in the ache they leave in his limbs. Form IV, to the evident discomfort of the crechemaster, is going to be one Anakin specialises in.

 _And form IV was Master Qui-Gon's thing_ , he thinks with satisfaction. He will be following in the man's footsteps, in a way.

He likes Ataru so much that he starts to get up early - before the sun rises - and practice it in the Initiates' training room. There is no one else there at this time, and Anakin can work without the weight of others' eyes on him.

One morning in the seventh month of the year, he nearly drops his practice saber when a cool voice calls out, "I'd been told you favoured form IV."

Anakin turns to find Obi-Wan standing at the entrance, his face wan, with a pack over his shoulder. There are scorch-marks along the side of his robes, and Anakin tries not to worry that Obi-Wan is hurt. The thought is disturbing; Obi-Wan has, even more than Qui-Gon, an air of serene indestructibility. And even though he is grossly old to Anakin, he is rather young as far as new Knights go.

“I like Shien, too,” says Anakin, because he cannot think of anything else.

Obi-Wan smiles. He looks thin and exhausted in the watery morning light. When was the last time he ate? "Would you like to practice together?" he says.

Anakin’s heart begins to pound, and he says in a wavering voice, "Didn't you just get back?"

Obi-Wan shrugs. "I can't sleep. I have too much energy."

 _You don't look like it_ , Anakin thinks, but says, "Okay, sure," because it is too early to fight, to push Obi-Wan away when he is standing there looking so tentatively hopeful. His mother always said that one should never start the day on a bad note. (He had not often listened to her, but is inclined these days to carry out things she had wanted.)

Obi-Wan places his pack and cloak by the wall and comes over. Anakin tries to discern whether or not he is injured, but he walks with his back straight and does not limp. Now that he thinks of it, Anakin has never seen Obi-Wan slouching. Not even at Qui-Gon's funeral. It seems more forgivable now, after this much time, though there remains in Anakin a well of deep bitterness.

He pushes it aside.

Obi-Wan asks to show him the basics of all the forms. Anakin does so, and Obi-Wan watches patiently, pelting him with occasional advice or encouragement. He fixes Anakin's wrist here, shifts his foot with his own there, shows him how to make use of his center of gravity. It is annoying to have someone point out everything Anakin is doing wrong, but then he realises this is just a faster way to get better.

Obi-Wan joins him with the kata. Anakin is entranced by the way he moves, by his clean, fluid grace, closer to a dancer than a warrior. (Is this how Knights always fight? Or is this Qui-Gon’s training?) He feels like he is betraying Qui-Gon, in an odd way, for actually  _liking_  something Obi-Wan is doing. It occurs to him he does not know Obi-Wan's favoured form, and so he asks.

Neither of them pauses as Obi-Wan answers, "Ataru was my preferred form as a Padawan. But I have been leaning towards Soresu of late."

"That's form III, isn't it? Why did you switch from Ataru? Isn't it better for combat?"

"That depends on how you define 'better'," Obi-Wan replies. "It is more effective than others against, say, blasters and guns."

"But isn't it bad for actual lightsaber duels?"

"Not necessarily. A strong Soresu user is considered almost invincible by many. Still, as you said, it has its weaknesses; it noticeably falls short when it's up against form II."

"Then why...?"

"Every form has its weak spots, Anakin. The more aggressive ones tire you out faster, and you are more easily injured."

"That doesn't really answer my question, though."

Obi-Wan releases a soft sigh, and stops his kata. Anakin pauses as well, curious. "Soresu is...a gentler form," Obi-Wan says haltingly. "More suited, I think, to what a Jedi ought to be. Not fighting to  _fight_ , but fighting to defend." He frowns, thoughtful. "It also does not draw on one's own aggression or passions as much as Ataru."

Anakin still does not think that Obi-Wan has answered his question; but, until recently he had been a possession, no different from a couch or a speeder, and if there is one thing he knows, it is when to drop a topic.

It appears that even Obi-Wan wishes to be stingy with his true thoughts.

***

The slaves on Tatooine do not possess holovids or pictures, but Anakin had once made a sketch of his mother in secret, with the charred ends of matchsticks, which he keeps beneath his bed. With each passing day it becomes more difficult to remember the colour of her hair, whether she is really tall or just seemed so because he is so small.

He keeps the sketch close, does not take it out around Obi-Wan. He wants to kiss it but is afraid of smudging the lines. At one point he asks sheepishly for wax paper in the library – usually, he would not dream of it, but this is important – and is aghast when offered a whole stack. He takes two, to preserve his sketch, and leaves the rest.

“Anakin,” says Obi-Wan in the mess hall one afternoon, “I know it may be difficult for you, but it would be better to let go of your attachment to your mother. It will only lead to suffering.”

Anakin freezes with his spoon mid-way to his mouth. He never talks about his mother. Had he been so obvious in his attention to his sketch? He had never caught Obi-Wan looking at him while he had it. Just how closely does this Jedi watch him? Is he like the Hutts who chain their slaves to their shops and stages and bedrooms, so that they can survey their property at all times?

His teeth clench. He is not property any more. He cannot be. Qui-Gon had  _said_ so. “Why?” he says. How can Obi-Wan ask this of him? Would Qui-Gon have done this, too? ( _No, of course not_ , he thinks). “It’s like the Council says. I wasn’t raised here. I’m not like you.”

“I understand – ”

“No, you  _don’t_. She’s the only thing I love,” Anakin says, more shrill than he intended. A few people turn to glance at them before averting their gaze, though disapproval rolls off them. The snide looks, the silent pity, the open criticisms - everything about him is under scrutiny at this godforsaken temple.

“Attachment is forbidden for a reason – ”

Anakin gives him a filthy look and cuts him off. “Yeah, yeah, that’s why you didn’t care when Master Qui-Gon died.”

Obi-Wan stares at him, going still. “That’s not true,” he says hoarsely.

“I thought Jedi aren’t allowed to be attached?”

“Anakin – ”

“I wish Master Qui-Gon was here instead of you.”

Obi-Wan’s face is white, and he is mute for so long that Anakin thinks he might have pushed him too far. (He had pushed Watto too far once. Just once.) Then, with a jerky movement that has Anakin flinching back in blind fear, Obi-Wan stands up, his chair screeching over the floor. “I…excuse me,” he babbles. “I must…” He rushes away without finishing his sentence, taking his tray with him, and dumps his food in the recycler before disappearing out the doors.

Anakin looks down at his plate, aware of the reproving stares of the other Jedi on him. Shame tips over him and he bites his lip, thinking of what his mother would say if she were here.  _Disappointed_. Then he thinks of what _Qui-Gon_  would do if he saw Anakin talking to his former apprentice in such a way, and shrinks in his seat.

Getting up, he shakes his head at himself and strides over to where the food is being served, grabbing a plastoid tray and a new plate. He has eaten in outside the mess hall before, so he knows that he will have to put them back eventually. After accepting a few cuts of fruit, some bread and butter, and a cup of water (the server refuses to give him caf), he trundles towards his shared quarters with Obi-Wan, tripping and almost dropping half the food in his haste.

When he reaches their quarters he hesitates. Will Obi-Wan even open the door for him? He does not want to barge in, even though it is technically where he lives. Acutely aware of the sticky sweat in his armpits, he balances the tray on one hand and knocks with the other. It is his signature knock, three short raps followed by two long ones, and he cringes at how loud and ostentatious it seems now.

Silence.

For a while he thinks Obi-Wan is ignoring him, or not present. Just as he sits down cross-legged and sets the tray beside him, the door slides open and Obi-Wan looks around before stepping forward and almost stumbling over Anakin.

“Anakin,” he says, sounding startled. His eyes are dry, not even red, though he still looks dishevelled and upset. He blinks at the tray. “Were you planning to just sit here with the food?” His countenance softens. “You don’t have to knock to come in here. This is your home as much as mine.”

Anakin stands up, not bothering to dust himself off, and picks up the tray, holding it out. “I brought it for you,” he mumbles, staring at Obi-Wan’s midriff because he cannot meet his eyes.  _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but something seems to stick in his throat.

Obi-Wan stares at him, and then sighs and says, “Oh, Anakin,” scrubbing a hand over his face. He takes the tray and steps aside to let Anakin in. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Anakin pads in, shoulders hunched. He watches as Obi-Wan sets the tray down on their table, sits down, and gestures for Anakin to take a seat. Anakin obeys meekly, waiting for a lecture and a sound cuff on the ear. Obi-Wan does seem the sort; Qui-Gon had a far gentler demeanour.

“I think we both handled that situation in the mess hall poorly,” says Obi-Wan, hands folded on his lap.

Something in Anakin's brain fuses.  _What?_

“We owe each other an apology,” Obi-Wan continues. “I am sorry, Anakin. I should have stayed and been a better Master. I hope you can forgive me.”

Anakin has never heard a grown-up  _apologise_  before. Not like that, all sincere and dignified. He goggles.

Obi-Wan’s expression becomes grave then, though it still isn’t  _mean_. “But I am also disappointed. You must not talk to people that way, Anakin. It is hurtful and wrong. You must consider how you would feel if someone treated you like that.”

Anakin looks at his boots. Obi-Wan is right.

“If you do not understand something, feel free to ask me. I will do my best to give you a satisfactory answer. It is my duty as your Master. And it is your duty as my Padawan to listen to me.”

Anakin manages a nod, his gaze still lowered.  

“Good.” Obi-Wan does not quite relax, but his face shifts so Anakin expects the lesson is at an end. “I trust you cleared your plate?”

“Er…no.” Anakin flinches, preparing for another earful.

“Well,” says Obi-Wan, “I think we can finish what you brought and then get ourselves another helping from the mess hall.” He gives a faint smile, kind and patient and brotherly.

Anakin looks away.

***

Obi-Wan, it turns out, has become a figure of modest fame within the temple, especially among the Initiates and junior Padawans. Occasionally he visits the crèche and watches the Initiates practice their kata or study. They stare at him and point and whisper, and whenever he stands in as a substitute teacher their eyes are wide as dinner plates.

"Master Kenobi!" they cry, and Obi-Wan smiles, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. He laughs little, and his rare touches to the children’s shoulders or heads are clinical, but it seems he does not require to be affectionate to be loved.

Anakin scowls as he watches Obi-Wan, tranquil as a lake in winter, teach the class on Jedi etiquette, Initiates standing around him in a circle. Obi-Wan is  _his_  Master; he is not supposed to give his attention to other Initiates. Even if Anakin should have been trained by Qui-Gon, the fact is that  _Obi-Wan_  will teach him. They will go off on missions and fight Separatists and settle disputes and be hailed as heroes.

And they will free the slaves on Tatooine.

There had been something grand and romantic about the idea of being trained by an experienced Master, about the wrinkles around Qui-Gon’s mouth and the frost in his hair – but Anakin is starting to see the appeal of being trained by a young Knight, already etched in the annals of history for slaying a Sith Lord. (He had  _cut him in half_ , according to the recordings, which had been shown to all Padawans, as an example of mastery of both form and poise. Anakin had watched, awed, enraptured, a bit frightened.)

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan calls warmly, holding out a hand, while a Twi’Lek Initiate tugs at his robe for attention, “come join the class.”

Anakin cannot find it in him to refuse.

***

Anakin is surprised, then flattered, then annoyed when he finds people coming up to him at random intervals and gushing about Obi-Wan.

“Your Master is  _so cool_ , Ani!”

“Your Master is  _Obi-Wan Kenobi_? Lucky!”

“I wish  _I_  was Master Obi-Wan’s Padawan.”

When Anakin finds himself wanting to kick the next person who froths at the mouth over how brave and dashing and perfect his Master is, he supposes grudgingly that there is some merit in meditating and releasing his emotions into the Force.

He wanders into the gardens, wanting the sounds and smells of grass and flowers, the ripples in the Force made by living things. Already he has a favourite spot – a gnarled willow tree by an artificial pond, behind the Temple. When he nestles into the little groove at the base, he can almost imagine he is sitting in a cradle. At first he had felt foolish, but then he accepted its comfort.

To his dismay, his seat has been stolen, and he balks, wondering what to do.

Obi-Wan sits with his legs crossed, his hands on his knees. Dappled sunlight plays over his form, and Anakin realises – though he had vaguely known it – that his hair is a delicate ginger. His eyelids are lowered and his mouth a soft line. Such peace Anakin has never seen in Obi-Wan’s face. Yet he finds himself irked; he is tired of hearing about Obi-Wan, and had come here for respite.

“Calm yourself, Padawan,” Obi-Wan says breezily, eyes still closed.

Anakin jumps and glares when Obi-Wan’s lips twitch into a smile.

“I can feel your agitation,” Obi-Wan continues. “Do you have difficulty releasing your emotions into the Force?”

“I  _don’t_.”

“Lies,” says Obi-Wan good-naturedly, opening his eyes at last, “suit a Jedi ill.”

Anakin bites his lip and studies the ground, his cheeks hot. Then there is what feels like a gentle nudge against his consciousness, like a tap on the shoulder, and he starts, gaping at Obi-Wan. It is the first time either of them has used their training bond for such a purpose. Anakin has been taught the inns and outs of the bond in his lessons, but to actually feel it is…strange.

“Would you care to meditate with me?” Obi-Wan says.

Anakin hesitates. They already practice kata together, but they are less a team and more two people succeeding in not disliking each other. This is a different kind of offering, and Anakin knows that, if he accepts, he will give to Obi-Wan Kenobi all that he had wanted to give to Qui-Gon Jinn. Loyalty. Pride. Affection, despite the Jedi tenets.

He is tired.

Bells begin to toll from a temple tower, deep and reverberant, marking the fifth hour from noon. He sits next to Obi-Wan, crossing his legs. Even without the flutter of reassurance Obi-Wan sends along their bond, Obi-Wan is a soothing presence, the Force around him pure and sweet and  _Light_. Already Anakin finds his skittishness and displeasure draining from him.

“There, good,” murmurs Obi-Wan, sounding satisfied and a touch smug. “Don’t sleep off, now.”

“I won’t,” says Anakin, and tries to focus on a mental spot.

When his eyes open next he finds himself staring at a receding hallway, and then becomes aware he is being carried, his chin on someone’s cloaked shoulder. The fabric smells of tea and grass, and he bunches it in his hand, wanting its homey comfort for himself.

“The next time you fall asleep during meditation, I will levitate you off the ground and into a fountain,” says Obi-Wan.

Anakin can hear the smile in his voice.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://lilaclotuses.tumblr.com/)


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